The Reward
by Zsra187
Summary: Facing the prospect of attending a formal banquet alone, Brienne curses the husband who has left her to such a fate.


**The Reward**

Brienne did not want any mirrors in their chamber.

She had no call for them, so rarely did she find the need to pamper to her own reflection. Indeed, it was a jape between the two of them that Jaime, as the far prettier of the pair, would be much more inclined to use it should they ever come across one. But only a few months after she had moved into her new chambers, one did appear. It was a huge, cumbersome thing, free-standing upon two clawed feet and finished in bronze, with a pretty design of flowers climbing all around the rim. It was lovely and Brienne could appreciate the workmanship. That did not stop her hating it.

Now she stands in front of it, the golden sunlight streaming in from the balcony, illuminating the beautiful midnight blue gown she wears. Turning this way and that, Brienne berates herself miserably. On any other woman, the soft, velvety fabric would flow over their curves like water on silk, swish around their ankles with the lightest of touches as they moved, but not so on Brienne. It had been made to fit her - which was one thing to be thankful for, at least - but it still did not make her look... pretty. If there were certain things that she wished for on occasion, along with everything else the gods have seen wise to fortunately bestow upon her, prettiness was not usually one of them. Except on those nights during which she finds herself painted, powdered, trussed up in one of those fine gowns that usually gathers dust in one of her chests, and thrust onto the stage of her most deeply feared nightmare - the formal banquet.

Those are the nights, like this very night, that she forces herself to look in the mirror and cannot help but dislike what she sees. Yes, her stomach is flat and her thighs are shapely, but her shoulders are too broad and her hands are too large. One might think that being so tall would naturally equip her with the qualities many find so desirable in a young woman of her stature: softness, gracefulness, elegance. Instead, Brienne's height just makes her feel awkward. Yes, her eyes are a lovely shade of blue. But her lips are too swollen, her nose is bent and her _cheek_... well, her cheek is enough to make anyone gasp upon meeting her, as once a particular young lady of the House of Redwynne did, audible enough for the whole of the seven kingdoms to hear.

Yes, she is a horror to set eyes upon. She supposes it's a small mercy that prolonged exposure to the lords of the Westerlands mean that she no longer has to endure their looks of revulsion too frequently; indeed, many of them seem to have grown so accustomed to her face that she only need suffer the smallest of grimaces when they come across her unawares. Nevertheless, these social occasions are the kind which make her insides curl with dread and Brienne always tries her utmost to avoid attending them.

So why not tonight? Here she stands, mentally preparing herself to walk into a room full of strangers, to subject herself to ridicule of the cruellest kind - and for what? Perhaps it has something to do with the _infuriating_ man whose lips have talked her into this, who should be at her side but whom hasn't been seen since breakfast? Yes, that must be it. Brienne flushes deeply as she recalls the evening before, the simmering heat of their bedroom and the wicked proposal he made to her. Yes, he must be the reason for her sudden bout of madness.

Self-conscious, Brienne smoothes down her skirts for the last time and supposes this is the best she's ever going to look. At least it isn't a _pink_ dress, after all.

* * *

'Where is he?'

Her voice hisses like an angry cat; a short, impromptu burst of aggression towards the man sitting beside her. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and Brienne is immediately ashamed at her outburst. Schooling her features into something more placid, she lowers her voice and tries again. 'He said he'd be here. Where is he?'

'I'm afraid I do not know, my lady,' the maester answers her. 'I saw him only a few moments before you came down...'

Brienne clutches her fork, crushes it within her grip. The silver feels comforting in her hand; it's hard and cold, reminds her of the hilt of a sword. _Were it a sword instead of a fork, _she thinks,_ I would cut through this crowd_ _and make my way upstairs, to hide in my chambers and never return. _Now that was a pleasant thought.

Her blue eyes search the hall frantically, desperate for any sign of him. She can't understand where he could have got to. Of all the nights, he chooses this one, this _particular_ one, to disappear without a trace. _It doesn't seem like him to miss an opportunity to watch me squirm with embarrassment. _

Without him by her side, she feels even more conspicuous than usual. Every single eye in the room is upon her and Brienne wants to sink lower and lower into her seat until she disappears. She can see into each one of their heads, knows perfectly well what they're all thinking. _Poor girl_, she guesses. _Not even married a year and this is her reward - an empty place beside her at the dining table while her husband is off fraternising elsewhere._ She knows it in her heart to be a falsehood but even so, the widely-accepted rumour still stings.

She must brace herself. Sit up straight and do what's expected of her, with or without her husband by her side.

Brienne puts her goblet to her lips and takes a large gulp of wine. Perhaps it will calm her nerves.

* * *

The night is soon alive with wine and song; a cacophonous din that stretches to the very rafters of the hall, spills out of the doors and into the corridors beyond. Many guests have vacated their seats, walking up and down between the trestle tables, making merry with friends and relatives - having seemingly forgotten to spare a thought for the miserable-looking young woman sitting at the very top of the hall.

Brienne fingers her very-nearly-empty wine goblet, careful not to raise her eyes and catch the gaze of another curious guest. They've been coming to her all evening; some with complaints about land-rights and inheritance laws, some jostling for favour, all asking: where might they find her husband? Has he been delayed? I wonder what could be keeping him? _Your guess is as good as mine, my lords_, she wanted to say, but she bit her tongue instead.

If she didn't know better, she might have guessed that Jaime was hiding from the constant barrage of interrogation from his subjects. He was always saying that she made a better ruler than he; more trustworthy, more honest, more honourable. More respected by their men, he often said. She would dismiss his claims outright, but inside, in that tiny place inside of herself she rarely shone light upon, his assurance in her made her glad.

_Perhaps that's the reason he's decided to relieve himself of the need to attend this evening? _Brienne thinks sardonically. _Perhaps he thinks I have it all in hand?_

Whatever the reason, Brienne doesn't care. The next time they meet in the training yard, she resolves to give him the thrashing of his life.

* * *

Then the dancing begins. If there's one thing Brienne dreads more than conversation, it's dancing.

If there was ever a time when she was a young girl that her various inadequacies came more to light than ever, it was on the ballroom floor. Like all young ladies of her stature, Brienne attended dancing lessons in her youth, but unlike most (and much to the exasperation of her dance master), they did not go well. Worse still, was when it came to put those lessons into practice.

_I suppose that's one reason to be grateful that Jaime isn't here,_ Brienne considers as she watches a number of couples twirling around the floor. _If he was, he'd ask me to dance. _Then she would have to oblige, since from the moment of their marriage (and perhaps even before then), she'd never been able to deny him anything he'd asked of her.

'Good evening, my lady.'

Brienne turns as a voice jolts her out of her reverie. It's Lady Janei Preston. Brienne hasn't had the pleasure of conversation with this one so far, but she's certainly heard of her reputation: malicious, ambitious and stupid, the worst kind of combination. Uncaring of the bounds of propriety, Lady Preston coolly slips into the vacant seat next to Brienne, leans over to her as if they were great friends about to share some delicious secret.

'A _wonderful_ banquet, my lady, if I might venture so.'

'Thank you,' Brienne replies stiffly. 'I trust you're enjoying yourself.'

She says it as more of a statement than a question, partly as an attempt to stem any further conversation, partly because it's clear to everyone attending that Lady Preston is having the time of her life. Here, she is the queen bee of society and her drones buzz around her adoringly.

'My dear,' she replies, 'one simply couldn't _not_ enjoy themselves in this magnificent place.' Her hawk-eyes scan the cavernous hall to illustrate her point.

_She does have a point there_, Brienne admits. When she first arrived at The Rock, the sheer size of everything made her gape. The whole castle seemed ablaze with a great golden fire, a constant reminder of the centuries of generations that came before her, of the great dynasty she was marrying in to. 'It certainly is intimidating,' she mumbles to herself.

'Intimidating!' Janei Preston's head whips around like a snake. 'Yes,' she says sneeringly. 'I suppose it would be, to some.'

Brienne isn't stupid; she hears the slight behind the words, but decides to act tone deaf to the elder woman's insults. Turning her face back to the crowd on the dance floor, her eyes fall upon a young woman in the midst of the bodies. She is a beautiful creature; long, flowing hair and high cheekbones, a perfect rosebud mouth, a tiny waist and shapely hips - perfection from top to toe. Brienne watches as she throws a coy smile at her male suitor from behind a gloved hand, and notes the similarity of her arched eyebrows and sharp nose to the equally arched and sharp features of the lady sitting beside her.

'Your daughter,' Brienne nods towards the floor, 'is an commendable dancer.'

'My Elynor. Only fifteen, but such a _beauty_ I have never seen. But then I would say that, I am her mother.' She gives a light little laugh, as though amused by her own sparkling wit.

_And you certainly aren't ignorant of the advancement her marriage will bring you_, Brienne thinks scornfully. 'It seems every mother is maternally obligated to sing their children's praises.'

'Indeed. I am not so different than all the rest. But you will understand that, when the time comes for you to have your own.'

Brienne shifts uncomfortably in her chair as she suddenly finds herself the focus of the conversation. Lady Preston leans even closer. 'And when, if I may be so bold, may that be?'

Her satiny soft voice slips into Brienne's ear, envelops her brain with an iron grip. 'Married nearly a year..' it whispers, 'and yet still no child. Might we hope for an heir soon?'

Brienne cannot fault Lady Preston; her voice is layered with concern, but beneath it drips with venom. Despite all her attempts to remain calm, Brienne feels her face heat up. _Ah yes, the lack of an heir._

It had taken much comforting and cajoling on Jaime's part to persuade Brienne that he did not care if they were to not have children straight away_. 'Let me make amends,' he'd said, 'and be a father to those children I already have. Then we can worry about ours, yes?'_

But her worries were only partly assuaged, for now her body was not only her own; it belonged to everyone. After only a short while the whispers started, growing in ferocity after every new month passed. They said that her husband did not share her bed, that he did not desire her, that theirs was a match based purely on strategy rather than love. Worse, they said she was not woman enough to carry a child, that beneath the armour and breeches her cunt was as hard and as cold as a stone. They said that she was barren.

But no-one had dared to suggest such to her face. Instead, they hid their barbed insults behind a thin veneer of concern, much like Lady Preston was doing so now.

'Yes, we may hope,' Brienne replies. 'I thank you for your concern.'

'Of course, my dear, of course. One has to be careful when it comes to this sort of thing. If it's not the begetting of a child, it's the birth itself...' She trails off, but gives Brienne a pointed look.

Anger rises within her. Brienne is no stranger to the perils of childbirth, having lost her own mother in the bed, and she is equally aware of what happens afterwards; the obligatory mourning period, the length of which always depends on how attached a husband was to his deceased wife. Then afterwards, _always_ afterwards, comes another woman to warm his bed. Another wife. Another child. Another heir.

Lady Preston gives a shudder. 'Yes, that would be awful.'

_Awful for me but a wonderful stroke of luck for you. I wouldn't be cold in my grave before you attempt to install your daughter in my place. _

A frosty silence descends between the two women. Lady Preston jangles her foot underneath the table to the music. Brienne sits stock still - her back ramrod straight - seething with fury. After a few minutes, the woman speaks again.

'Will his Lordship be attending this evening? I can't see him anywhere...'

The old crone leans forward and cranes her neck to look around the guests, as if expecting him to appear suddenly at any moment. 'Of course, I can't see Elynor either. You know how young women are, they so rarely stay put when they are told to. Maybe they're conspiring together in a corner somewhere?' Her eyebrows raise at the blatant insinuation, a smirk playing around her lips.

_Enough._ She cannot subject herself to any more malice, any more spite. Brienne pushes her chair back, stands up tall with clenched fists. 'Goodnight, Lady Preston,' she says coldly, before striding away from the table.

* * *

She is within a hairs breadth of freedom when a strong hand wraps itself around her wrist. Gods curse it all, the goblet of wine she gulped down earlier has slowed her reactions, for she finds herself pulled from the crowd into a solitary, darkened alcove.

The strong, musky smell of him floods her nostrils as soon as her back hits the wall; it's the only thing that stops her from cracking an elbow across his jaw. With a glinting smile, he presses his body into hers, and suddenly her tongue feels too big for her mouth, her heart pounds with excitement, her cheeks flush with embarrassment at being caught sneaking away.

'Well met, wife.'

Should she deny her attempt at escape? She's certain that he would be able to see through any excuse that she could come up with, but her brain seems to have turned to mush and she's finding it hard to think of one.

'I... I'm afraid I'm feeling a little faint. I was making my way outside to get some fresh air.'

Brienne winces as soon as the lie falls from her lips. She doesn't even need to see Jaime arch one perfect eyebrow to know that her ridiculously transparent attempt at fooling him has fallen flat.

'Really my lady, is that the best you can do? You know as well as I that this passage leads only to our chambers upstairs. And you're not the fainting type.'

He leans in close and his breath ghosts over her cheek, warming her insides. 'Unless you simply cannot wait for the end of the evening and prefer to tumble into bed now? It's an option that I won't say isn't incredibly appealing.'

To be so openly desired by a husband, or indeed any man, is a something that Brienne has never before believed possible for a woman such as her. Even now, with the hard leanness of his body pressed against hers, she finds it hard to let herself truly believe that it isn't some jape.

Met only with silence, he locks his gaze onto hers. 'Are you alright? Why the sudden dash for the door?'

Even after a year of marriage, Brienne still finds it hard to be probed so. It takes all of her resolve not to hunch her shoulders and ward off his questioning gaze. 'I was talking with Lady Janei Preston,' she eventually answers.

'Ambushed by, more like.'

'You were watching?'

'Of course,' he replies. 'What did you talk of?'

_Of the possibility of you having taken her daughter as your mistress. _'Nothing of importance.'

'Let me guess... she delivered a malicious barrage of spite, cleverly concealed behind politeness.'

'More or less, only not so carefully concealed,' she admits. Then she asks him, before she can stop herself, 'Do you know her daughter?'

'Lady Elynor Preston?'

Brienne nods. 'I've heard she is a great beauty.'

'If she is, it's her only redeeming feature. I once sat next to her at a banquet, she is as lifeless as a limp cock.'

She smiles briefly, glowing inside, before leaning forward to press her lips gently against his. It's a small gesture; of love, of thanks, of gratitude, for both knowing her insecurities and how to rid her of them in one fell swoop. Leaning her forehead against his, she whispers, 'Let's leave.'

'So soon?' He gives her a smug grin. 'It seems you have quite forgotten your motivation for getting through this evening...'

'Motivation?' Brienne leans back against the wall as his mouth grazes the skin just under her ear. Her hands jump up, fingers entwining themselves in his hair. 'Is that what you'd call it?'

'What would you call it?' he mumbles against her skin.

'Bribery. Enticement.'

He laughs. 'Encouragement,' he corrects her. 'Don't tell me I failed?'

'I think you'll find I never actually agreed to the deal.'

That was nearly the truth; she hadn't ever agreed to it. _Mind you_, she thinks, _it's rather a difficult thing to achieve coherent thought when your husband is lying between your legs, promising you every sinfully delicious incentive under the sun_. And just because she never agreed to it, it didn't mean that Brienne didn't utterly, achingly _want_ it.

'Didn't you? Damn.' His hand snakes down her body, comes to rest at the top of her thighs. He rubs the soft velvet of her gown into her skin with his thumb, small delicate circles that serve to drive her to utter distraction. 'And I was so looking forward to dishing out your reward.'

Brienne blushes deeply. 'As was I.'

A slow smirk spreads across his face. 'Very well, my lady,' he grabs her hand in his and pulls her towards the stairs. 'I'd hate to disappoint you, after all.'

* * *

**A/N**: Written for oathkeeping's prompt at the JaimeBrienneOnline fic-a-thon: 'While getting ready for some big event (a party or ball or something) Brienne is afraid to face the people for fear of what they'll say about her so Jaime uh... gives her some incentive to get through it.'

This was a very long time coming. I started it last year, then had a major crisis of writing confidence, and have now only just managed to finish it. I also apologise to anyone who may be waiting for an update on 'Not all those who Wander are Lost.' It's coming, I promise you!

Thank you for reading, feedback is _greatly_ appreciated.


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